He sounded friendly and anxious to help, and she couldn’t stop herself from bursting out:
“Oh, it is!”
Then give me your name and telephone number,” said Rollison. “You would like to see him to-night, I imagine?”
“Oh, yes, please.” She gave him the details. “It doesn’t matter how late it is, I shan’t be able to rest until I’ve seen him.”
“If I were you, I’d try,” advised Rollison.
She rang off, and smiling wanly at the recollection of his advice, went into the bedroom, kicked off her shoes, and lay down. The man had sounded so calm and reassuring that she began to wonder if she were making too much fuss. Bob might return soon. It wasn’t yet late; not really late.
Richard Rollison stood up from his desk in his large study-cum-sitting-room, and, without looking at the papers which he had been reading, went into the hall.
This was quite roomy and furnished sparsely, although a connoisseur would have appreciated the old oak settle with a swing seat, and the near-black wardrobe, the small but exquisite water-colours on the walls. A thick-pile brown carpet covered the floor. A short passage led off the hall to his man’s room, the kitchen and the bath-room. The main rooms all led from the hall.
He called out: “Asleep yet, Jolly?” and his man answered in a sleepy voice: “No, sir, not at all.” Rollison smothered a grin and opened the door.
By day, Jolly always dressed in black. By night, his colour scheme was much more gay, and he wore bright yellow pyjamas which were somewhat unexpected in a room which was obviously a man’s. It was rather crowded, with good but not antique furniture, and one wall was lined with books.
The light from a bedside lamp reflected from the yellow garments and gave his lined face, with its dewlaps, a look of yellow jaundice. He had been reading, in bed, and struggled to sit up while retaining hold on his book.
“Let me help you,” said Rollison gravely.
“I can manage quite well, sir, thank you,” said Jolly. “I must have been nearly asleep,” he remarked. “I’m sorry sir.”
“I wish I were nearly asleep,” said Rollison smiling into Jolly’s brown, soulful-looking eyes. “But I’m going out.”
“Can I get you anything?” asked Jolly.
“I hope I’m not going to need anything,” said Rollison. “Jolly, between these four walls——”
“Yes, sir?” A hopeful, inquiring note sprang into Jolly’s voice.
“Snub isn’t in love or anything like that, is he?” asked Rollison.
“Mr. Higginbottom, sir? I have not been informed of any such phenomenon.” Jolly was now quite wide awake. “He does from time to time form attachments, but I believe they are always short-lived.”
“But how deep while they last? Has he ever mentioned a Mrs. Allen?”
Jolly pondered, and shook his head. “I don’t recall the name, sir.”
“Or Barbara Allen? Possibly shortened to Bar or Babs?”
“Definitely not, sir,” said Jolly. “I hope that Mr. Higginbottom has not been getting himself into difficulties.”
“So do I,” said Rollison. “But a tearful young lady wants to see him urgently, and doesn’t mind how late it is when he calls. She’s undoubtedly in trouble. Snub’s in Blackpool, disporting himself with the Lancashire lasses, and so——”
“You are going to see Mrs. Allen,” concluded Jolly.
“Admirable deduction,” said Rollison. “And I’m going at once because I don’t want to be too late! Her address is Byngham—with a “y”—Court Mansions, St. John’s Wood, and her telephone number is St. John’s 81312. So if I’m not back by the morning, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly primly.
“Good-night,” said Rollison.
After Rollison had gone, Jolly shook his head and smiled —a rather solemn smile, as one might give when brooding over the follies of youth or the idiosyncracies of men in love. He knew that Rollison had lately been lured into a series of social functions which he seldom enjoyed, and this was his first early night for a week. Moreover, Rollison—sometimes called the Toff—did not make up in the morning for sleep he lost at night He was busy with a variety of jobs, many self-imposed, and missed the services of Snub Higginbottom, his secretary.
The unexpected visit had driven sleep away. Jolly got up, put on a dark blue dressing-gown, made himself a cup of tea, and took it into the study. He enjoyed an hour there when Rollison was not in. To-night, he found himself contemplating the trophy wall.
At one time he had disapproved of it, for the trophies were not of ordinary hunts, but of man-hunts. And in most of them Jolly had played a part, not always willing, but often important There were, for instance, the two umbrella-handles. With one, Jolly had hooked the feet from under a man who might easily have mortally wounded his employer; with the other, Jolly had knocked a man out simply by striking him over the head. Curiously enough, these incidents were the only ones for which Jolly had been formally thanked by a magistrate or a judge for contributing to the success of the law over lawlessness, which was why Rollison had selected them as Jolly’s trophies.
There was the top hat, right at the top, with a hole drilled through the crown. There were chicken feathers. There were knives, automatics, curious and ingenious weapons, some of which hardly looked lethal. There were glass cases in which were tiny quantities of deadly poisons. There was a cosh, one of the earliest trophies; it was after Rollison had won the cosh, that Jolly had first heard him called “The Toff”. And there was a visiting-card— one of Rollison’s, with spots of dried blood on one side and, on the other, a simple drawing of a top-hat, a
